


Broken Things

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad, no really, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the quiet of the night, Bro wants.</p>
<p>In the quiet of the night, Dave hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Things

There's something forbidden about mapping out a twin image of yourself. Bro thinks this, quietly, as he lets his large hands roam over a pale body, pale enough to be dead, and the red eyes are glassy enough to be those of a corpse, unfocused behind dark shades, peering up at the ceiling. He traces his thumb over Dave's face as he leans over the younger brother, and Dave doesn't react.

Dave is what Bro was before he grew up, Bro thinks. Even though Dave is eighteen, he looks so young. He is a doll. He is breakable, hollows at his elbows, spaces between his ribs birdlike, lips small, pursed. As the older man presses his palm against Dave's stomach, he feels a familiar wanting in himself, and though he does not see it mirrored in Dave's face (how could he- Dave's expression is hidden by his glasses)- he dips forward and takes as he wishes.

* * *

Dave feels dead, only worse.

His fingertips press against the cotton of his comforter, and he feels the ghosting of lips over his neck, dull orange eyes fixed on his. He feels fingers, splayed, across his stomach; he feels breath, hot, against his neck. And worst of all, he hears, hears his traitorous voice. "Do you want this?" he had been asked. And he had whispered, throat hurting, "yes," with hot tears burning his eyes.

He had wanted it, Dave reminds himself, as his fingers scrabble over his blanket in the suffocating dark of his room. He had wanted-

to be held. To be loved. To be embraced. To be protected.

Teeth had claimed his neck and words had told him he was precious and holy. Fingers had pressed in worship against his lips and told him he was revered and special. Lips had crashed against his own and claimed his breath, sucked the life out of him. Dave had thought that making love was that- making love. But now, as Dave lies down on his bed, unable to sleep, all he can think is, we made nothing, we took nothing away. Dave had wanted love and he didn't get it. His brother had wanted a little affection and maybe he had gotten it. Dave doesn't know. Dave doesn't care.

The worst part is that Dave falls asleep brushing his fingertips over the marks on his neck, remembering how his brother had  _looked_ at him, like he was precious, cherished, something beautiful. Not quite in the way a father looks at a child, but it was closer than Dave had ever seen before, and so he made no sound when he was claimed.

 

* * *

In the days to come, they match each other in nervous stride, mimic each other with nervous tics. Dave is the one who breaks first. He is afraid behind his flat gaze and unemotional words. It doesn't gotta be like it was before, Dave says coolly, his words not betraying his feelings, which are various tonal ways of saying  _don't leave me again_. We don't have to act like a pair of teenage girls who got their cherry popped after prom, and when he says this it's meaning something like,  _this isn't wrong, right?_ And when his brother leans against him and wraps his arms around him, Dave can feel their heartbeats sync, lining up and beating against each other, and for a minute Dave can close his eyes and imagine it is a wholesome and clean gesture, before he feels a mouth on his neck once more.

As for his brother, the elder Strider makes measured moves, says encouraging words, unaware of his affect partially but not wholly. He knows, in the pit of his heart, that he is manipulating his brother, but the hunger for affection blinds him to the wrongness. All he can think of when it's 3 am and his brother is curled against his chest is-  _this is so much better than sleeping alone._ All he can think of when Dave first mimics back those unsure overtures is-  _someone loves me. Look._ And when Dave cries out, afraid, with nightmares, and Bro wraps his arms around the boy and strokes his fingers against his chest, it never crosses his mind that the monster in his brother's mind might be him.

* * *

 


End file.
